


My Boy Builds Coffins

by FiliTheLionKing (IAmYourWatson)



Series: The God of Poetry and the God of Death [1]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Angst, Donn is the Celtic God of the Dead, F/M, Gods!AU, M/M, Mugging Gone Wrong, Romance, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmYourWatson/pseuds/FiliTheLionKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitchell has already faced death once before. He came through on the other side, undead but relatively whole. But Death comes for all of us, in a rather permanent fashion. Unless, of course, you can strike a deal with it, or rather, its emissary...</p><p>Anders Johnson is in love with John Mitchell. Simple as that. But one night on the town with his boyfriend, his brother, and his brother's pregnant wife gone wrong threatens to destroy his happiness forever...</p><p>An offer is given. A choice must be made. </p><p>Will there be a tomorrow for them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Boy Builds Coffins

**Author's Note:**

> First posted to my tumblr, bewarethelionsden, and now posting it here. The character death is temporary, but to tell you more would give it away! Critiques and reviews always welcome, and greatly appreciated!

Mitchell had already experienced death. He’d been through the Door, he’d faced The Men with Sticks and Ropes, and he’d come out undead on the other side. He’d done the whole cliche: he’d seen his life flash before his eyes, felt fear and remorse, and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in anymore. He’d watched Ghosts cross over through their Door like the Fates intended, watched Annie cross over to her rest, and he’d killed more humans and vampires than he’d ever care to admit. And now he was facing death again, and this time, he knew he would not be coming back.

It had begun as a normal day, which is how they always started, the tragedies of his life. Routine, regular, nothing unexpected seemed to be happening. He got up, kissed Anders awake, made love to him in the soft morning light, then got up and made his lover breakfast as the god showered. They ate together, kissed again, and Mitchell laughed as he literally pushed Anders out the door, citing the wrath of Dawn as his reasons. Then he’d spent the day cleaning, having a day off from work and wanting to get all of his chores done before he went to pick up Anders and walk him home. They were going to go to dinner with Ty and Dawn, and it was supposed to be a nice, somewhat cool night, so they’d all figured on walking to the restaurant, even the four-months pregnant Dawn. 

It was going so well, which should have been the first sign of trouble. Dinner had been delicious, the Italian food nice and warm in his stomach, Anders’ hand a warm weight in his own hand. Ty and Dawn were being as cutesy as ever, but for once it wasn’t anywhere near grating, at least for Anders, who outwardly appeared to have no romantic bones in his body. Mitchell knew better, but he kept his lover’s secret well. They were passing a dark alley (and oh, isn’t that just so typical?), the four of them chatting happily, and Mitchell’s guard had been down. Otherwise he would have heard the rapid heartbeat faster. Otherwise, he would have seen the blade glinting in the dim light. Otherwise, he could have stopped all of this. 

But life was never fair to John Mitchell. It was only a matter of time until it caught up with him. As it was, at the last second, he saw the blade coming down towards Dawn, as the dark man snatched her up and pressed the weapon to her neck. A robbery, a thrice-damned robbery. The guy had no idea what he was doing, but Ty and Anders were already fishing out their wallets, whether to distract the man so Mitchell could kill him, or just to avoid a confrontation at all, Mitchell would never know. He saw an opportunity when the man reached out to take the money, and he struck. He knocked Dawn out of the man’s arms with a movement too quick for the human eye to see, the woman landing in Ty’s already outstretched arms, safe as she could be in that moment. The man’s eyes widened, seeing pitch black eyes staring back at him, sharp fangs glinting like the knife in the moonlight, and he ran. 

Mitchell gave chase, angry, even more angry than he would have been if the man had grabbed Ty or even Anders, because Dawn was pregnant, and no one, not anyone, touched Dawn and got away with their lives. Not when Mitchell was around. That was his greatest mistake. The man ran down the alleyway, dropping his knife on accident, too smart to stop and get it, but too dumb to just give up while he still had a chance of Anders saving him from the vampire’s kiss. But he ran, and he ran past several broken wooden crates. Trapped at a dead end, he grabbed a piece of crate, sharpened, serrated; a stake, if you will. Mitchell didn’t see it in time, too blinded by his anger. He ran right into it. 

There was pain, blinding pain. Before the red haze grew too bright, he felt himself ripping the man’s throat out, blood dripping from his hands as the corpse fell to the ground. Distantly, he heard voices, Ty making sure Dawn looked away, his phone out to call the police if necessary. Anders screaming out Mitchell’s name, finally seeing the stake in his lover’s heart, protruding out of his back like a blood-red spine. The vampire slowly turned around, his eyes bleary but normal again. He smiled softly as he fell to his knees, Anders going with him, his arms around his dying (again) lover. Mitchell wanted so badly to comfort Anders, but he was already fading. There was nothing he could say or do to make things better. 

He knew what would happen to him. Soon he would be ash and clothes, no body left for his beloved to bury. He would walk the corridors once again, only this time there was no escaping them. The Men with Sticks and Ropes would come for him and throw him into hell, his soul devoured by the Devil, as his contract stated, that unwritten sword of Damocles hanging above his head for so long. At least he knew Anders was alive, and that he was well, and that Dawn and Ty were safe, at least for now. Anders could move on. He was a resilient man, despite his soft core, and he would learn to live again, maybe even love. He wanted so badly to tell his lover this, but the words couldn’t seem to unstick themselves from his throat. All he managed was a soft set of words as he felt himself fading.

"Anders…y’shouldn’ be cryin’. Yer too pretty t’cry, y’said so y’self." He laughed quietly, trying his best to keep his eyes from shining with tears and failing.

"You egg, why did you have to go after him? We were all right, you stupid idiot, why did you?" Anders sobbed, uncaring of who saw him cry, he loved this man, and he’d be damned if he kept his mask on, it would be an insult to Mitchell’s intelligence.

"Don’ worry ‘bout me, love. I’ll be all right. Jus’ t’ought I’d have more time, y’know? I’ll…I’ll see y’someday, eh?" Mitchell knew he was lying, and he prayed Anders couldn’t tell, but Bragi was the god of words and poetry, he could tell lies from truths as easily as you could tell apples from oranges. 

"Liar. You were always such a bad liar, John…" Anders smiled, the gesture watery and unstable. "Please, don’t do this to me, you can’t go, I won’t let you, I…"

"Ssssh, quiet, love. It’s all right. Jus’ keep smilin’ fer me, yeah?" Mitchell dragged Anders down for a kiss. "I love you, Anders Johnson. Always and fer’ever…" Mitchell smiled and closed his eyes for the last time.

A gust of wind, and Anders was holding no more than a handful of ash. 

 

* * *

 

He was standing in a corridor he was all too familiar with. At the end was a single door, blood red, with a terrifyingly dark light pouring out from underneath it. Soon The Men with Sticks and Ropes would be coming for him, to push him through the door and into his well-deserved punishment. He’d known this day was coming; he’d only hoped he’d get to see Anders grow old with him first, then he would have willingly walked into Hell with his head held high, the memory of his beloved tucked away safely in his heart, spending his life with the god as the one good thing he ever did. But he was denied it, yet another tragedy in the long life of John Mitchell. Sighing, he looked around for want of something better to do. Might as well delay the inevitable for a few minutes longer. After all, he was only going to be in there for eternity.

He looked down at his chest, noting the gaping wound still there. He pulled the stake out of his heart and tossed it aside, dark blood splattering against the dark beige wall. Concrete beneath his feet, no door behind him, just another wall. No going back now. He stared at the wall behind him, as if it would become a window that would let him see his god one last time, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. So it was that he didn’t notice the new presence in the corridor, nor did he feel the cool gust of wind behind him until he noticed his jacket fluttering slightly. The vampire whipped around, ready to face The Men with Sticks and Ropes. 

What he found was something else entirely, and ten times as intimidating.

Standing before him, surrounded by a soft gray haze, his long black hair flowing in a strange, sourceless breeze, was a pale man, his eyes black as night, his robes a dark green, like the hills of the vampire’s homeland. The man was tall, easily towering over Mitchell by at least a good head, if not a bit taller. Thin, pale lips parted in a soft smile, which made the man look no less threatening or frightening. The man came a step closer, and Mitchell was rooted to the spot. 

"Fear not, young one. I am not here to harm you." The man’s voice was like a thousand voices speaking at once, the tones all dark and of varying pitches in the male range, but still low enough on the scale to leave no confusion as to what gender the being was. Pale hands ending in trimmed black nails were raised in a gesture of peace. Mitchell, having seen too many strange and terrible things in his life, wasn’t placated.

"Who are you?" The vampire spoke with as much confidence as he could muster, which was a considerable amount, given that he could be looking upon the Devil himself right now. 

"I am Donn, Lord of the Dead." The being inclined his head politely, his dark locks obscuring his face for a moment before he raised it again. Now that Mitchell was paying attention, he heard the familiar Irish lilt in the man’s voice, and a sense of ease not entirely natural fell over him. "You are a son of Ireland, a descendant of my people of long ago. Though you do not believe in me, I have watched over my children for a long time. I know of all who are dead and dying, and the children of the night are no exception. I have watched you, John Mitchell, since that day on the battlefield. So many dead, so many lives wasted. Just because I am Lord of the Dead does not mean I wish for lives to be ended so soon." The being smiled sadly, and Mitchell saw just how much weight the being carried on his shoulders. 

"You’ve…been watchin’ me?" Mitchell’s Irish accent grew thicker, and he felt young, younger than he had in a long time. He looked down and noticed the gaping wound in his chest was gone, and he was once again in his army fatigues, boots still muddy from the battlefield. The only thing missing was his rifle. "But…why? I’m not…I’m a monster…" 

"Some who are monsters are still human, and some who are human are still monsters. The form doesn’t matter, it is the soul that concerns me." Donn spoke quietly, his cacophony of voices strangely pleasant to Mitchell’s ears. "I have been guiding souls into the Afterlife for some time now, as you might guess. Long have I reigned over my kingdom, and while I cannot control Death and when he takes someone, I can, at times, change his mind. All gods and goddesses of death and the dead can do so. Rare are the times I have interfered, but you, John Mitchell, are worth acting for." Donn slowly walked around Mitchell, as if evaluating him.

"When you were younger, before the war, you were a bright star, a mother’s darling, someone with a bright future before them. Simple wishes, simple goals, and a heart kind enough to achieve them. You volunteered to fight for your people, for your family, and in doing so cemented your place in Heaven, because you didn’t enjoy war, though you always liked fighting. When you died, you did it to protect your men from becoming carrion for other vampires. But, the form sometimes overcomes the soul, and you lived in sin for decades." The god’s sad, black eyes met Mitchell’s as he came to a stop before him. "You have tried to atone for your misdeeds, which already makes you a good candidate for redemption. Even more, you have kicked blood, as much as you can, and you have spent many years trying to help instead of harm."

"That doesn’t make up for the lives I’ve taken. It doesn’t stop me from being a sinner! I damned myself long ago, I knew that going in, I know I’m a monster!" Mitchell couldn’t fight years of despair and murder, of blood and anger. "I tried, yes, but I couldn’t stay away from blood, I even fed from Anders, and I tried so hard to be good for him, but I still hurt him sometimes, and that’s unforgivable!" 

"He forgave you, John." Donn said patiently, his voice soothing now. "He loved you, still loves you. He broke through years of pain and mistrust to love you, surely that makes you worthy of such love and forgiveness. Anders is not a man to love easily." The god of the dead placed an icy-cold hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. "But I am not here to speak of the past, my son. I am here to speak of the future."

"My future is Hell. There’s no point in denying it." Mitchell’s voice was soft and resigned, his eyes fixed beyond Donn’s shoulder and on the red door awaiting him.

"The future is not a set thing. I see all, I know all, all gods of death know everything. How else can we be there for those passing on if we do not know what is to become of them, what has happened to them from the day they were born? But that is not your concern, not right now." Donn waited until Mitchell’s curious eyes met his own. "I am here to offer you a second chance. A chance at the life you once craved, a chance to atone for the deeds you still believe you owe penance for. A chance to be happy."

"……" Mitchell gazed up in disbelief at the god before him. Here was Donn, a god of the dead, offering John Mitchell, vampire and sinner, a second chance. But Mitchell had been told too many lies over the years, and he was not about to start naively believing things now. "…What’s the catch?"

Donn smiled, the action still somewhat sad, but mostly understanding. “I would be lying if I said there is no ‘catch’, as you call it.” Mitchell chuckled darkly, ready to turn down his offer, believing it to be yet another trick. “This is my offer: I will return you to life, just a few moments after you left it, with your body healed and your mind still full of your memories, so you may act as my vessel upon the earth. While the Celtic gods have no Ragnarok to be concerned about, we still wish to see the balance of the earth kept safe. As my vessel, you would be granted powers of precognition, the knowledge of when someone will die, if they are to die within the next few days. Also, you will still be able to see Ghosts, and interact with them as you were able to as a vampire.” The god’s smile turned happier. “No Men with Sticks and Ropes can harm you, or interfere with you or your loved ones. You will no longer be inside their purview, and as my vessel, you can banish them from your sight, though you cannot destroy them. And, in return for all this, I will give you what you desire most: a mortal life. You will no longer be a vampire, but a human once more.”

Mitchell stared in disbelief at the god before him. He’d long given up hope of redemption, but this? This was beyond anything he’d ever dared to dream of: a mortal life? A chance to not only watch Anders grow old, but to grow old  _with_  him? He held Donn’s gaze, and though it frightened him, he forced himself to look. He saw death and despair and agony and the screams of the unwilling and the painlessness of the afterlife and the promise of rest and contentment and peace, all at once, in dizzying technicolor and black and white. Pained, he looked away, but he had seen enough. No lies, no tricks, all stipulations and catches laid out before him. All he needed to do was take it.

He looked at the red door; the handle was shaking, the wood splintering, the hellfire on the other side burning the portal as it tried to get out and claim its prize. Donn followed his gaze and growled, flicking his hand at the door, and the rattling stopped. The vampire gasped in surprise; how could this lord of the dead, from a pantheon he’d never believed in, tell Hell’s fires to basically ‘shut it’? Donn’s smile was dark yet playful as he looked back at the son of Eire. “I am far older than the Devil and his fires and pain. I can tell him to be quiet, but only for so long. We gods can only contend with outside deities for so long before they claim those who believe in them. So tell me, John Mitchell, what is your choice?”

Mitchell looked down at Donn’s hand on his shoulder, then back at the door, and then closed his eyes. Donn waited patiently. The vampire took a few deep breaths. His eyes opened. He met Donn’s gaze.

He made his choice.

 

* * *

 

The ashes fell away from Anders’ hands, and the wind swept them up into the night sky. He didn’t look up, though, his eyes focused on the dark red shirt lying on the ground before him. All that was left of Mitchell; just a few clothes and some ashes, all gone, all fleeting. The god of words and poetry could find nothing to say, and for once in his life, words failed him. He tore his gaze away from the clothing on the ground, and instead found Ty and Dawn’s eyes, his own eyes pleading. Dawn and Ty could do nothing, just as rooted to the spot as Anders was. Dawn’s hand rested lightly on her slightly swollen stomach, and Ty’s arm was around her waist. Anders held back a sob; he wouldn’t have that anymore, the comfort, the support, the love. 

"Oh, love. Why, Mitchell? Why? Why did it have to be you" Bragi’s mortal vessel sobbed, his eyes turning to the ground once more before they closed, teardrops landing on the concrete ground. His choked cries echoed through the deserted alleyway, the tall, unforgiving business buildings standing like silent sentinels around him, emotionless and detached, uncaring of his pain. Ty was holding Dawn, soothingly stroking her back as she too cried, his own eyes downcast and blurred by tears.

It was because of this that no one noticed the disappearance of Mitchell’s clothing and his remaining ashes. No one noticed the soft breeze pick up for a few moments, then fall down to almost nothing. No one heard the soft sigh of a door to the Afterlife closing. But they all heard the crackle of lightning, they all saw the bright flash of light, and they all smelled the fresh scent of an Irish spring, surrounded by clover and trees after a summer’s rain. As one, they turned to the source of the commotion, and, as one, they all gasped. 

There, standing in the middle of the dark alleyway, surrounded by white mist, was John Mitchell. 

His eyes were black for a moment, as dark as they ever were as a vampire, before the mist slowly faded, gathering into a single glowing shape before it merged into Mitchell’s body. His eyes faded to their usual brown, and a soft smile graced his face. Anders was stunned. No, it couldn’t be, the ashes, the clothes! He looked down, and they were gone; the clothes were once again on Mitchell’s body, as pristine as they were when the vampire first bought them many months ago. And that mist…it couldn’t be. It was…it looked like a god soul. But how? And why? And…

"Hello, love." Mitchell’s voice was soft and full of adoration, a tone of voice usually reserved for when they were very much alone and safe from the world. He walked slowly over to Anders, almost as if the god was a skittish animal, and he held out his hand. Stunned, the blonde god took his beloved’s hand and stood, before looking down at Mitchell’s hand. Without a word, he ripped off the glove and touched Mitchell’s palm to his own.

"You’re…you’re warm. You’re warm! How are you warm? John? John, what happened, why are you…how did you…John!" Anders flung himself at his boyfriend, all pretenses of calm and collectedness thrown out the window like so much dust. He sobbed, freely and without shame, clinging to his impossible lover as if he’d fade away again if he let go. For all he knew, Mitchell would. 

"Ssssh, calm down, love. Breathe…" Mitchell’s voice was soothing, yet giddy with excitement, his secret gnawing at him in the best way. He was like an eager child who knew something even the adults didn’t know, and he slowly peeled Anders away from him, his eyes only for the god before him. "My name is John Mitchell, and I’m the mortal vessel of Donn, Celtic Lord of the Dead." 

The three others standing in the alleyway stared at the impossible Irishman in disbelief; a tentative hope lay in Dawn’s eyes, while Ty and Anders stared at him like he’d gone mad. Dawn was, as usual, the first one to get her head around things, and she quietly dislodged herself from Ty’s grip to come up to Mitchell and touch his cheek, gasping when she felt warmth beneath her fingertips, instead of the usual cool skin she was used to. 

"…You are, aren’t you? You’re…you alive!" She grinned brightly, awkwardly hugging him around her belly and a still shell-shocked Anders. Mitchell laughed and returned the hug carefully, keeping one arm around Anders still. Ty was still staring in shock as Dawn walked back to him, patting the man’s back gently. "It’s all right, love. You’re not going crazy." 

"Yeah, but…but how? I didn’t even know the Celtic gods reincarnated?" The vessel of Hodr was slowly warming up to the idea. Anders was almost frighteningly still and silent in Mitchell’s arms. 

"They usually don’t. They like to stay and watch over Ireland and the UK, but every now and then they will. And as it turns out, Donn’s been wanting to see the world for some time now, and well, long story short, he, uh, picked me." The now-mortal looked at them sheepishly. "He resurrected me, bent the rules. I’m from Ireland, and I was already dead, so I fell under his jurisdiction, if you will. Saved me from Hell and everything. I have a clean slate now." Finally, he looked at Anders, and Anders alone. "I can start over again. No more blood, no more cravings, no more voices in the night. Just us, together, no vampire business anymore." 

The god of words and poetry stared silently at him for some time, the seconds passing into a minute. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and touched Mitchell’s cheek, shuddering at the warmth beneath his lover’s skin. His fingers slid down to Mitchell’s neck, where he felt a normal, steady,  _human_  pulse beating beneath his fingertips. He met Mitchell’s eyes, searching them for lies, for a joke, for the world to say ‘Haha, Anders! Fooled you again!’ But he saw nothing but love and adoration and an almost painfully shy hope in the brown orbs. Mitchell hadn’t spoken any lies; Bragi was helpful that way, and the god inside of him stirred in recognition of another godly force standing before him. The blonde’s hand slowly moved up to cup Mitchell’s face. 

"…John, you fucking egg, don’t you ever do that to me again!" He cried out, bringing Mitchell down for a deep, passionate,  _relieved_  kiss, the two of them reacquainting themselves with the other’s taste and feeling, as if they’d been apart for years instead of minutes. It was like their first kiss all over again, because this time Mitchell’s mouth wasn’t strangely cool, Anders wasn’t wondering why his god powers didn’t work on this handsome man, and the vampire was no longer a vampire on the run from his past. He was a god now, well, a god’s vessel, and he was here to stay. Mortal, warm, soft,  _free_ , free of his past, free of his addiction, free of the fear that one day, he would be the death of Anders by his own hand. 

After several long minutes of kissing, touching, and whispered vows of love, the two finally pulled away for air. Dawn and Ty were conspicuously absent, but the two gods could sense that they were probably just at the end of the alleyway, waiting for them. Mitchell looked around; it seemed the mugger’s body had disappeared, probably thanks to Donn. Well, no worries about being booked for murder any time soon. Anders noticed where Mitchell was looking, and for a moment there was silence. Then the two burst out laughing like children, giddy with excitement and adrenaline, the roller coaster of emotions the night had put them through taking their toll on two  _very_  mortal bodies. Anders smiled up at his boyfriend, his  _mortal_  boyfriend (and man, wasn’t that going to take some getting used to?), and took his hand. 

"Come on, Endless. I think it’s time we went home…" Anders laced their fingers together and led Mitchell out of the alleyway and back into the bright night light, the lights of the city and the moon and the stars mingling in a beautiful cacophony.

Mitchell had never felt more alive. And hopefully, he’d stay that way, for a very,  _very_  long time. And inside his mind, Donn grinned, and whispered  _'Second chances, John Mitchell. Enjoy yours.'_


End file.
